Stories
by Le Masque31
Summary: "He coughed slightly, absently carding his fingers through Gellert's sparse strands of hair, and began to speak of another love, darker and more dangerous than their own." Albus visits Gellert in Nurmengard and tells him a story. One-shot. SLASH AD/GG and HP/LV.


******Disclaimer: **If I owned _Harry Potter_, I am fairly certain I would not be spending my time writing fan fiction.

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"Tell me a story, Albus."

Albus Dumbledore swallowed. Gellert Grindelwald, the erstwhile Dark Lord, was resting his graying head on the other man's lap while lying on a filthy cot. His eyes were closed, and, with a pang, Albus remembered that there was nothing to see in the dark, damp cell jealously withheld by the weathered stones of Nurmengard from sunshine and rain, from nature and humans. It was a lonely, curiously empty existence, and despite the greater good, despite public encomiums and words of triumph still heaped upon him by strangers decades after that accursed duel, Albus could not stopper the guilt that flowed like poison through him.

So he opened his mouth to talk of birdsong and the caress of the wind and heavy, intoxicating fragrances—for it was summer, and the gnarled apple tree he had passed on the winding road to the prison boasted leaves of gilt-edged green, sundry fallen apples about its roots the deep garnet of a Renaissance painting; daisies had bloomed in a cheerful yellow carpet over the wide expanse of fields stretching away from Nurmengard, spiked here and there with bold coral dahlias and penstemons of a hypnotic purple hue; the breeze was sweet and indolent, and it reminded him, irresistibly, of another summer in another lifetime, when Gellert's lips had been soft against his own and his golden curls had looked as bright as sunshine.

But his throat was tight with restrained tears, and the words would not come; perhaps they refused to linger in this stark no-man's-land, this strange unreality—Albus thought that it might render them unreal too, dreams of a long-forgotten past. He coughed slightly, absently carding his fingers through Gellert's sparse strands of hair, and began to speak of another love, darker and more dangerous than their own.

"I knew a boy once who made all the wrong choices," he whispered, marveling, even now, at the outcome of his story.

Gellert suddenly laughed his silver laugh, shifting a little on Albus' lap. "This isn't about me, is it, Al? You know I can't bear to listen to your moralizations, however edifying they may be for others."

The corners of Albus' lips lifted imperceptibly in a sad little smile. He could hear the hollowness behind his lover's silver laugh, the wrenching madness underneath the sheen of gaiety. "No, love; this is not about you."

Gellert made a noncommittal noise, leaning his face against Albus' hand.

"The boy's name was Tom Riddle, although he goes by a different name these days. I daresay you have heard of him, Gellert. He calls himself Lord Voldemort."

Gellert stiffened a little in surprise. "You want to talk about Lord Voldemort? That _is_ morbid, even for you, Al."

"Morbid? I wouldn't say so, my dear." Albus' face shone with the warmth of a genuine smile. "In the past, I have recounted tales of murder and mayhem, of the Dark Lord's rise and disappearance, of his return and consuming obsession with Harry Potter. But this is a tale no one else knows—a tale whose full scope eludes even me. You see, Gellert, Lord Voldemort is missing."

"What?" Gellert was sitting up, leaning closer to Albus on the tiny cot to peer at him with wide eyes. "What do you mean, 'missing'?"

"I mean that we have lost him, Gellert. No one knows where he is."

The other man scoffed, incredulity plain on his face. "One would think a Dark Lord would be more … conspicuous."

"So one would think, yes, love." Albus' eyes twinkled. "And yet there is no trace of him. And it appears that he has taken Harry Potter with him." Upon noticing Gellert's frown, he appended, "The boy is missing as well."

"Has it not occurred to anyone that Lord Voldemort might have abducted the child to murder him?" Gellert had an air of baffled incomprehension about him, as though he were unable to process why the obvious answer had not occurred to Albus.

"That is what everyone else thinks. But I have been led to believe that this surmise is fallacious. You see, my dear, the night before his disappearance, Harry came to my office with a very strange request: He asked for permission to leave for a couple of months. I believe he said he would like to travel the world. His demeanor struck me as … flurried, I think you could say—so unlike himself that I felt compelled to question him further, to ascertain if …" Albus trailed off, staring into space with a far-away look in his eyes.

("Is this about Tom, Harry?" he asked, knowing full well that he was right when the boy started and goggled at him.

"How do you … Sir, what makes you think that?"

"Is this what you truly want, Harry?" he continued, ignoring the boy's question.

"Yes, sir." Harry collapsed in a chair with a groan; he plucked his glasses off his nose and rubbed furiously at his eyes. "Sir, I … I seem to have fallen in love with him."

"Is that so, Harry?" Albus replied genially, steepling his slender fingers to gaze at the child with an air of mild interest. "And—forgive me for asking, Harry, but I must know—does he return the sentiment?"

Harry glanced at him uncertainly, as though unsure of how their conversation had reached the topic at hand. "He does, Professor." A look of disbelief slackened the boy's features as Albus merely hummed at the revelation, nodding ever so slightly. "You do not seem surprised, Professor," Harry added weakly, his sudden pallor making the darkened skin around his eyes look gray and drawn.)

"Albus?" Gellert prompted, nudging his lover out of the curious trance-like state that had descended over him. "What did you want to ascertain?"

Albus gave a tight smile; like all stories, this one too had a moral, and the recollection had sharpened it so that its blade-like edges cut into Albus' composure. "If Harry had made his decision out of love."

Gellert frowned, and Albus noted with another pang of regret how deep the crevices dug in his lover's skin. _We are getting old. _"I'm not following, Albus."

_Of course you are not following, my love. I am barely following myself. But fate must have her way, I suppose. Oh, how much like the youth of old you look with that luminous glint in your eye, that fierce desire to understand! I loved you once for it, Gellert. Now it is too painful a reminder._

"Harry has fallen in love with Lord Voldemort, and, if I am not mistaken—and all of us should hope that I am not—Lord Voldemort has fallen in love with Harry. Oh, don't look so shocked, Gellert! Such a feat cannot be news to you." Albus stopped talking, allowing a pause to sneak in between them.

Gellert was gaping at him in a rather undignified manner. "How is this possible, Al? You have told me that the Dark Lord is nigh on obsessed with murdering the Potter boy." His voice came out as a whisper, soft and quiet.

"Things have changed, Gellert. The boy is … precious to Voldemort."

("He must finish his education, Tom." Albus held the Dark Lord's gaze with his own stern one, as part of a discussion that occasioned when the latter stormed through the doors of his office three months ago. Not in a thousand years could Albus have foreseen that visit, especially considering that the castle had been surrounded with so many defensive wards that even birds had trouble flying on and off the grounds; but the Dark Lord's presence, however disconcerting, as well as his marked lack of ward-related physical harm, assured Albus of the wizard's peaceful intentions—well, as peaceful as the man's intentions could possibly get, which would have still sent lesser sorcerers cowering in fear.

"I need to keep the boy safe," Voldemort insisted with an edge to his voice.

"Harry is perfectly safe here, Tom. You of all people must know that."

"You do not understand." Voldemort lowered his eyes to the boy sitting by his side. Harry had rushed in mere minutes after the Dark Lord, looking torn between being concerned and livid. Albus had not missed the way Voldemort's body stiffened. "He is precious to me."

"I know what he is, Tom," Albus rejoined lightly. He cut over the Dark Lord's outraged hiss. "Don't you think it would look suspicious were Harry to vanish during the middle of the academic year? He is still underage, as you well know, and the whole wizarding world knows that he lives with his aunt and uncle. They would search for him, Tom, or else deem him dead by your hand, neither of which would be advantageous for you."

Voldemort's brows contracted, but he remained silent.

"Let's wait," Harry piped up, and, turning to the Dark Lord, added, "I can come live with you over the summer."

Albus was surprised at Harry's eagerness, and could not prevent his guardedness from seeping into his voice as he spoke: "Are you sure of that, my boy?"

"He has nothing to fear from me, Albus." Voldemort's voice was low and dangerous. Harry merely blushed, ducking his head. "And," the Dark Lord continued, seizing upon the silence, "Harry and I will continue to see each other every weekend."

"Continue?" Albus queried, looking at Harry, who nodded wordlessly. "Surely that is excessive if your sole purpose is to check up on him?" He was still gazing at Harry, although the boy had averted his eyes.

"Do I have to spell it out for you, Albus?" Voldemort's voice had waxed silky, yet the Headmaster did not miss the warning concealed just beneath the surface: _Do not press the matter further, you old fool._

"Is this wise, Tom?" There was a pleading note in the old man's voice. "After everything he has suffered—"

"I would never hurt Harry." The Dark Lord stated it simply, but for once his voice was devoid of cruelty. In the cathedral-like silence that enveloped them afterwards, his words seemed to be magnified, acquiring the solemnity of an oath.

_Indeed, you could not have spelled it out more clearly, Tom._)

"I still don't understand, Al. How could the boy be precious to him, considering the prophecy?"

Albus sighed. "It is old magic. Voldemort's survival is inextricably linked to Harry." At Gellert's little noise of incomprehension, Albus explained: "Have you ever heard of Horcruxes, Gellert? No? Well, I'm not surprised. They are a form of very dark magic. Horcruxes are vessels in which a part of one's soul can be concealed, guaranteeing immortality. I assume you can guess at the method by which one's soul can be torn apart."

"Murder," Gellert murmured. "Oh Merlin. So the boy—"

"Yes, my love. He carries a part of Voldemort's soul."

Gellert fell silent. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he asked, "H-how many?"

"I don't know."

"Merlin's beard … Wait, you talked of the child as being willing." Gellert gave him a concerned glance. "Could he be under the Imperius Curse?"

Albus had to chuckle despite himself. "No, I think not, Gellert. It just so happens that Harry is a truly extraordinary child, braver—and kinder—than most."

"So you believe that they are genuinely in love with each other?"

"In their way."

"How would they have met? Wasn't the boy at Hogwarts?"

(The silver tendril of thought swirled on the glassy surface of the Pensieve, glimmering against the muted glow of the mysterious liquid. Misty vapor clung to Harry's face like a bright gray veil, subduing the crimson of his cheeks into pale rosiness.

"I met him in the park just off Magnolia Road last summer, when I wandered out by myself one night," Harry explained, absently dipping the tip of his wand in the Pensieve; it seemed almost black against the giddy mooncalf of the fluid. Albus had wondered aloud at the improbability of their sitting down for a talk.

"In the park?" the Headmaster repeated, bemused.

"I sought him out, Albus." The Dark Lord's voice had taken on a strange, soft quality, almost slipping into sibilance. "I had become cognizant of the nature of our connection that night at the Ministry, when I attempted to possess him. I encountered the Horcrux, and it stood like a bulwark between me and Harry's mind, preventing entry and making sustained efforts at pushing me out entirely. I had no choice but to withdraw."

Albus nodded, and gestured toward the Pensieve. A moment later, the cheery office dissolved in a cloud of black and silver, and a deserted park materialized before them. Darkness had fallen; the moon seemed wan and dispirited, its rounded face a smudged yellow; there was a figure seated on a nearby bench, darkly silhouetted against the sickly orange glow of a distant streetlamp; Albus noticed that both the grass and the bench were damp.

"Harry Potter." Albus started, and so did the Harry in the memory; there had not been any footsteps.

The boy before them scrambled to his feet, patting his pockets almost desperately in search of a wand that was not there. He made a soft noise, something between a groan and a whimper, and attempted to retreat, only to be yanked back none too gently by a pale hand clutching at his wrist.

"Sit down, child. I will not raise my wand against you tonight."

All color drained from memory-Harry's face, but he sat down all the same. Out of the corner of his eye, Albus noticed the real Harry sidling up to Voldemort, his fingers seeking out the long, thin ones of the older wizard.

Albus swiveled round again at memory-Harry's hollow laugh.

"Not raise your wand against me? What's this, Riddle? Have you finally gone round the bend?" The boy was afraid; Albus could read it in the tightness of his muscles, the brusqueness of his movements; he had nothing but taunts, born of his Gryffindor courage, to throw at the Dark Lord.

"I no longer seek to kill you, Harry."

A breathless hush. It had to be a joke—it had to be …

"Why should I believe you?" the young wizard asked in a quietly defiant voice, but Albus could hear the quiver behind it, and he was sure that memory-Voldemort could too.

Voldemort heaved a sigh so deep, so soft, that it reminded one of the pages of an old, dusty tome fluttering in the breeze. "Do you know anything of Horcruxes, child?" The Dark Lord passed a hand over his brow, as though warding off a headache, and sat down next to Harry, who eyed the older man with poorly concealed suspicion before shaking his head.

"A Horcrux is an object—or a person—into which a wizard pours part of his soul. The magic involved is ancient and convoluted, relying on a connection between the wizard and his magical core rather than any standardized spells, but it is nonetheless initiated by a simple act of murder."

"Why are you telling me this?" Memory-Harry's face was ashen.

"You are my Horcrux, Harry."

The boy sprang to his feet, an unhinged gleam in his eyes. "No. No, this is impossible. You're lying. I know you are. No. No. It cannot be." He took a few gulping breaths. Albus could see that he was shaking.

"No, no. I … No." He put out a hand, seemingly to steady himself; but his fingers never touched the bench. Memory-Harry fell to the ground in a dead faint.)

"How would they have met? It's … complicated, Gellert." Albus was nearing the end of his story. For a brief second, the mad desire to get up and leave it unfinished flashed into his mind; but then Gellert sank down on the bed again, nestling his head in Albus' lab, and before he realized it the decision had been made for him.

"So the Potter boy fell in love with his would-be murderer …" Gellert's voice sounded strangely muffled.

"Harry is a much better man than I."

"Why do you say that, Al?" Albus let his palm drift down Gellert's face, and his fingers encountered wetness.

"He is taking Voldemort away to some far-flung corner of the world. Don't you see, my love? He is willing to scrap his whole life to be with this man, to cure him—yes, cure him, Gellert, for there is madness within Lord Voldemort even if he does not show it to the world—and to keep him away from Muggles and wizards alike. I, however … I have cast you into this hell-hole and thrown away the key." Albus felt tears trickling down the deep grooves in his cheeks.

Gellert had sat up again, and was cradling his lover's face between his palms. "Don't say that, Albus. Merlin knows I deserve to be in here."

"I was too blind to see … too proud to accept …" Albus leaned into Gellert's touch, humbled to see tenderness rather than hatred in those faded eyes. "And Tom Riddle, too … I could have intervened, Gellert. I could have become his mentor. But I chose to ignore the signs until it was too late, and look what has become of that brilliant boy." Albus shushed Gellert's attempts at comfort. "And, worst of all, I shied away from him, refused to take responsibility, refused to confront him. I could have stopped him in his youth. But I didn't. I couldn't. I had been there before, you see. I could not let myself be tempted by that kind of power again. And," Albus' voice had sunk to a whisper, "I could not face the prospect of pushing yet another person—the handsome, brilliant boy who reminded me so much of you—into the abyss where I had dumped you."

"Albus …"

"I'm sorry, Gellert." He was sobbing softly now, his head on Gellert's thin shoulder. "I hope you can forgive me, one day."

Gellert buried his lips in Albus' white hair. "For a genius, you can be pretty thick sometimes, Al. I have already—I forgave you the minute you stepped foot in Azkaban with that flushed look on your face. I forgave you because I knew you still loved me."

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**A/N:** I know that in the movies Nurmengard was shown as being in the middle of the sea, but to the best of my knowledge J.K. Rowling never actually mentioned its location in the books. I could, of course, be wrong, and if that is the case, feel free to call me out on it.


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